Just a Boy
by chrystaline
Summary: "Houses won't separate us, silly," she says. Her voice holds the quiet comfort of a warm fire and the soothing reassurance of a hot cup of tea. "You and me, we're inseparable."


Shabby robes, a few patches here and there, obviously second-hand. His head is buried in a book. Across from him sits a girl. Her face is pressed against the window as the countryside speeds by. The whistle of the train sounds. She lets out a dreamy sigh.

"Isn't this amazing, Sev? We're finally going to Hogwarts," she says. She presses a hand to the glass. The brightness in her eyes is tempered only by the glare of the sun.

The boy looks up from his book and smiles. The girl turns to look at him, a grin already spread across her face. She reaches forward and removes the book from his unresisting grasp.

"Oh come on, Sev, put that book away," she says, placing the book on the seat next to her. "Look at this! I've never been away from home before."

She turns back to watch the landscape pass.

The boy reaches forward and picks the book up. He rifles through the pages until he reaches the page he stopped at. He removes a piece of parchment from the back of the book and slides it between the pages before snapping it shut and placing it on his lap.

"Me neither," he says. He picks at the worn edges of the book. His smile has fled. The girl turns. The grin slides off her face faster than the moving train.

"What's wrong, Sev?" she asks. He ducks his head.

"What happens if we're sorted into different houses?" he says quietly. The stormy discontent at her friend's unease flits away. She stands up, plops herself down next to him and wraps an arm around his skinny shoulders.

"Houses won't separate us, silly," she says. Her voice holds the quiet comfort of a warm fire and the soothing reassurance of a hot cup of tea. "You and me, we're inseparable." She squeezes his shoulders reassuringly.

He gives her a hesitant smile, willing himself to believe.

He already knows in his heart.

-)-

He is crouched over in an abandoned classroom on the third floor, tears streaming down his face. He is alone. In his hands, he clutches a photo of a young boy and girl hanging from a tire swing, broad grins painting their faces. They are immortalised forever in that happy contentment. He prefers non-magical photos because so few things in his life are permanent.

And he has ruined the only permanence he has.

He remembers the sunlight streaming in between the columns, the sharp chill wind that seemed to blow in the moment the dreadful word left his lips. He remembers her eyes widening in hurt, the angry tears pooling in their beautiful green depths as she gazes at him in disbelief. He remembers the exact wave of her long red hair spilling past her shoulders.

He is shaking so hard with the force of his silent tears that he cannot sit straight. He has never cried so hard. He has never hated himself so much. It boils within him, burning his insides like acid. He wants so much for it to spill out of him and consume him alive.

 _You and me, we're inseparable._

He has separated them.

She will not forgive him.

He will never forgive himself.

-)-

"Severus," the old man says wearily. The young man _still the boy_ is on his knees. He thinks back to the night he spent in the abandoned classroom on the third floor and laughs bitterly at his naivety.

Tonight, he cries until he had no tears left to spare for anyone or anything.

He knows he is falling apart. He has never let anyone see him fall apart but it does not matter, not anymore.

The old man leans down and attempts to help him up. The young man shrugs him off. He is numb, there is nothing left for him, nothing left of him.

"Severus, please," the old man says, on the verge of tears himself. "Her son still lives."

The young man chokes on a sob _silent always silent_ and looks up at the old man. He does not care. He does not care if her son lives or dies or falls down a cliff and bashes his head open on the rocks below. He does not care if the earth stops rotating, if the sun extinguishes, if the moon falls from the sky and rolls through his front yard.

All he knows is that she is gone.

"He has her eyes," the old man says softly. The young man flinches so hard he almost falls backwards. The old man holds him steady. "Young Harry is in danger. He needs a protector."

The gaze is trusting, kindly. The young man closes his eyes _she's dead dear god I killed her god I killed her_ and when he opens them again, the old man is still there. Nothing he ever does will make her forgive him again _there is no one there to give forgiveness_. Nothing he ever does will make him forgive himself again. His whole life is now an atonement, a journey to redemption _I deserve to die to burn to suffer_ he will never deserve. His whole life, as it always was, is now wrapped around her and her alone.

He abruptly pulls himself together. He pulls a handkerchief from his robes and wipes his face. It is already set like stone.

"No one must know," he says softly.

He leaves.

The stone never breaks.

It can never break.

 _if it breaks I will disappear_

-)-

The man lies on the cold wooden floor, blood pouring from the jagged wound in his neck. He is so tired. He cannot wait to close his eyes and greet Death but there is one thing he must do first.

There is movement at a dark corner of the room. His gaze swivels to study it.

Her eyes appear from the darkness.

His already laboured breath catches in his throat. He realises that soon, he will see them again in her face and she will shun him. Her eyes creeps closer, wide and fearful, eyes brimming with moisture that does not fall.

"Professor?" her eyes _Harry Potter_ say quietly.

The man concentrates. Her eyes comes to kneel down beside him, hands ineffectually trying to stem the flow of blood. He does not have much time. Silvery liquid, memory, pours out of his ears, his nose, painting his face with an eerie glow.

"Take it," the man murmurs. There is a gasp, clinking. Her eyes picks a vial from a hand attached to thin air and begins to collect it. The man closes his eyes.

"Hang in there, Professor, help's coming," her eyes say. The man opens his eyes. He knows he has no time, his path now only goes in one direction and one direction alone. His job is done.

"Look at me," he whispers.

Harry Potter turns his helpless gaze towards him. The man sees everything he does not want to see in those eyes. He sees his mistake, his cowardice, his fear. He sees despair reflected in the green depths the exact shade of her eyes.

The stone breaks.

He disappears.

-)-

When he reappears, he is on the grassy bank of a gurgling river. He is dressed in white shirt tucked into brown shorts, clothes he's seen in the magazines in the shops of his youth. He has never owned these clothes. He has always wanted to own these clothes.

He wanders down to the water and kneels, gazing into its depths.

Reflected back at him is a face he has not seen in over thirty years and next to it is another that makes his heart stop and his blood freeze.

"Sev?"

He jumps back.

It cannot be.

"Lily," he breathes.

She is as young as he is. It is almost as if he has snuck out of his house again to escape the insanity that was his home. She smiles at him, all dimples. Her red hair ripples gently in the wind.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

A small rueful smile quirks her lips.

"It's okay, silly. I've forgiven you ages ago," she says. She reaches a hand out to him. "Come on, let's go play."

He does not take it.

"But how?" he says. "How could you when I hurt you so much?"

She sighs, plops herself down next to him and wraps an arm around his skinny shoulders.

"Yes, I was hurt," she says. "But you're my best friend. You've always been my best friend." Her voice holds the quiet comfort of a warm fire and the soothing reassurance of a hot cup of tea. "You and me, we're inseparable."

An uncertain look flits across his face and he smiles tentatively at her.

A broad grin lights up her face.

"Come on, let's go play!"

She grabs his hand and tugs him to his feet.

Hands joined, they run.


End file.
